


Meant To Lose

by redeyedwrath, wildamongwolves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Established Relationship, Frottage, Heavy Angst, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Sterek Reverse Bang 2017, The Hale Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 12:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11290305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildamongwolves/pseuds/wildamongwolves
Summary: Stiles turns to him, a toothy grin and eyes lit up like fire, and says, “Okay.”In which, Stiles and Derek are Pack, and Pack is everything





	Meant To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> HI I'M STILL ALIVE!!!! This has been my project the past few months, and I wrote this mostly in between my exams :p I hope y'all like it, even though it's um. Yeah. What it is.
> 
> Betas/people who helped me out: Thanks so much to [clotpolesonly](http://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com), [halesheart](http://halesheart.tumblr.com), and [toppunks](http://toppunks.tumblr.com) for reading over it and generally listen to me ramble about this, and always reassuring me I'm doing a good job. I couldn't have done it without you guys!
> 
> **WARNINGS:** This fic is angst-heavy, and I can't give you warning without spoiling the fic. If you're worried, check **the end of the work** for warnings.
> 
> **Another note:** Forget everything you know about canon!Stiles. Stiles is older here, more fucked up and also magical. Don't question it.

_Maybe we’re meant to lose the ones we love_  
_But I’ll fight for you ‘till then_  
_And if they stole you from me_  
_On my arm, there’s a tattoo of your name_

**\- Million Dollar Houses, Pierce the Veil**

—

The door slams shut behind him with a loud bang, the dark, polished wood trembling with the force of it. He’s done this before — run off with little regard for anything but himself — and he knows he should stop doing this, he _knows_ , but he — he can’t.

“Derek,” Stiles shouts, _pleads_ , fists pounding on the door. He could open the door in seconds, blast it off its hinges, Derek knows. “Derek, please, open the door...”

“No,” he breathes, head in his hands, because Stiles can’t enter, not right now, he just needs to be alone — he can already feel his claws lengthening, pricking through his skin. “Leave, please.”

There’s banging and shouting and Derek smells smoke and he can’t — he can’t do this and Stiles has to go because he’s not taking Stiles with him, not again, not like this, he can’t do this _he can’t do this_ —

The door blasts off its hinges, the dark wood dropping next to Derek’s shoulder, nearly on his head. He looks up and there Stiles is, eyes golden and worried and filled with a fire that makes Derek burn.

“You _idiot_ ,” Stiles says, and then his arms are around Derek’s shoulders and Derek can’t think of anything but _Stiles Stiles Stiles_. He slumps into Stiles’ embrace, buries his nose against the most fragile patch of skin of Stiles’ throat, calms himself with the thought that Stiles trusts him, and that’s all he needs. “I promised you I’d help you, didn’t I? I’ll always be here for you.”

—

This is how he ends:

A burning house, the smell of flesh boiling off bones. Derek stares at his fingers and does nothing. Laura’s eyes flash red, her hand on his shoulder. Nights spent crying, staring at his ceiling, guilt bubbling up in his throat until he’s drowning. Blond curls and a toothy grin, and another clawmark in the wall or the mattress or his skin.

The police station is crawling with people, smelling of donuts and sweat and gunpowder. Derek’s blood mingles with the red color of the chair. He lowers his head further and avoids everyone who wants to talk to him. Tears drop out of his eyes and all he can hear is blood trickling on concrete, burning hair and flesh and his mom _screaming_ —

“It’ll be okay,” a man says, light glinting off his golden Sheriff badge and Derek wants to scream and cry and die because it’s not going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay because _he killed them_.

Derek nods and buries his claws in the underside of his thighs. He and Laura leave Beacon Hills in a trail of smoke and tears and blood and they don’t look back.

—

They’re in Philadelphia, in a diner with greasy cushions that Derek wrinkles his nose at, and a bored waitress that keeps chewing strawberry gum. Derek doesn’t like diners — they smell weird and the bright LED lights hurt his eyes — but Stiles does, and relationships are all about compromise.

The menu is creased, and yellowed by stains and age. Stiles takes one look at his face, at how he’s holding the paper in between his fingernails instead of letting his fingertips touch the paper, and grabs the menu from Derek’s hands.

“You should just let me order,” he says, face soft. Derek glances at the gentle curve of his cheekbones, the creases around his eyes, and nods. Stiles’ mouth curves into a smile, and Derek catches Stiles’ hand in his, squeezing it, just to let himself know that they’re together and they’re _okay_.

After dinner, after Derek’s eaten a cheeseburger with as little contempt as he can manage, after Stiles has eaten something that looks like someone vomited on a piece of bread, when Derek’s drinking coffee and Stiles is just sitting there, looking at Derek through his lashes, a content smile on his face. And Derek looks at him, the moles dotting his skin, his neck, arched and pale and long, his nose, and all he can think is _I’m yours_.

“Duuude,” Stiles says, a big grin on his face as he pats his stomach. “We should just settle down here and eat Philly steaks for the rest of our lives because I’m in _heaven_ right now.”

“We should make it official,” Derek blurts out, and he clenches his hand into a fist. Stiles’ eyes widen almost imperceptibly, brown glinting in the crappy LED lights like gold. The tip of Derek’s claw scrapes against the mug, and he has to clench his jaw just to stop himself from breaking it.

“What?” Stiles asks, arm hovering awkwardly in mid-air. His fingers twitch once, twice, and settle on the skin of his neck, rubbing over the vein in a gesture of nervousness or — or because he knows what it does to Derek.

Derek looks down at his lap, concentrates on the coffee which barely even smells like caffeine, trembling slightly. Stiles’ eyes snap into laser-focus, burning into Derek’s head until he continues. “Us. Being a Pack.”

Stiles smiles and sinks back into the bench, waves over the waitress to ask for the check, never taking his eyes off Derek’s. Derek’s heart skips a beat — Stiles has this way of looking at him that makes him feel naked and vulnerable and protected, warm and soft and glinting.

“What did you have in mind?”

“A tattoo,” Derek breathes, leaning in until he can cover the side of Stiles’ neck with his palm. The skin vibrates beneath his touch, alive, blood rushing beneath the surface. He thinks of the triskelion on his back, thinks about the mark there, _right there_ , on Stiles where everyone can see it. His claws shoot out, just a little, pricking the thin layer of skin.

Stiles turns to him, a toothy grin and eyes lit up like fire, and says, “Okay.”

—

They manage to find a tattoo parlor that’s still open at this hour. It smells like blood and ink, and Derek instinctively tenses. The thought of someone else — someone other than _him_ — touching Stiles there, hurting him, sets his teeth on edge and fills his stomach with more than simple jealousy.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, voice soft in Derek’s ear, and he squeezes Derek’s fingers. Derek nods and tries to keep breathing steadily. Stiles’ lips graze the curve of his ear and Derek shivers. “We can always call this off.”

Derek frowns. They’ve come this far, they’re going to see this through. One look at Stiles and Derek caves completely; the idea of Stiles belonging to him in every way possible too much to resist.

“It’s fine,” Derek says, but his voice trembles a bit. “Besides, we can celebrate this after.”

Stiles leans away from him, a grin on his face, and they don’t look away from each other until someone calls Stiles’ name.

—

“Do I look good?” Stiles says, panting against his mouth, pulling back to trace his thumb down Derek’s throat, feeling where Derek’s pulse is racing. His eyes still shine faintly with the glow of healing magic, bandage ripped and on the ground.

Derek makes a noise of confirmation, whiny, needy, Stiles’ thigh against his cock as he ruts forward shamelessly. His eyes fall closed, his head turning to one side because it’s just too good, letting out another noise.

Stiles goes on, nuzzling at the soft skin behind Derek’s ear. “You like this, your mark on me,” he insists and Derek nods because he does. “Made for you, wasn’t I?”

He grips Derek’s chin and turns his head back and forward until he can kiss him, the two of them panting into each other’s mouth, sharing the same breath.

“Stiles—” Derek tries, but Stiles shushes him quietly, presses a kiss to his cheek, his fingers tugging at the strands of Derek’s hair.

“Come on, Derek, come,” Stiles says, _pants_ , into Derek’s ear and Derek’s close, so close, he can’t —

“Stiles—” Derek tries again, his voice trembling.

Stiles shoves his hand into Derek’s pants, presses his palm against Derek’s cock and squeezes. “You will, won’t you?” he asks, licking into Derek’s mouth. “You will. For me.”

Derek comes.

—

They leave Philadelphia a few days later — the lead they had led to nowhere, they had no reason to stay. Derek drives first and then Stiles does, sleeping in the car until they reach their destination, their muscles cramped. Stiles can only do so much, Derek knows, but every time Derek tries to stop him, Stiles is already loosening Derek’s muscles with a small burst of magic, warm and familiar under his skin.  

The next motel they stay in is just like the other ones, hastily-cleaned and the faint smell of smoke lingering around. Derek can barely remember a time where his room was clean and everything smelled familiar, like him and _Pack_.

He clenches his hands into fists. He needs to stop thinking like this. Stiles is Pack now.  

A warm hand covers his, and he slowly relaxes, a small smile spreading over Stiles’ face. There are bags under his eyes and red patches on his neck, stubble burn and nervous scratching making the skin irritated. Stiles tugs a little on his hand, encouraging him to walk forward, and Derek goes willingly.

He sets the duffel bags on the ugly brown duvet, and the bed creaks as he sits down on it. Stiles walks in between his legs, carding his hands through Derek’s hair, spreading his scent until Derek can smell nothing else. He smiles, resting his forehead against Stiles’ stomach. They can rest, for now. They’re not here for pleasure — they’re never anywhere for pleasure. There have been rumors of vampires for a while now, and once they’d caught wind of it, they’d rushed to this shitty motel like there was no tomorrow.

“You can sleep if you want,” Stiles mumbles, scratching behind Derek’s ears. Derek almost purrs. Almost. “I’m going to look over the map a few more times.”

Derek nods, his forehead rucking up Stiles’ shirt. He presses harder against the firm muscles of Stiles’ stomach. “‘S fine. I’m going to shower.”

“Neat freak,” Stiles says, voice affectionate, and he steps back and to the tiny wooden table, grabbing the map and spreading it out. Derek immediately feels colder, and he has to fight the whine that’s building in his throat. He can’t distract Stiles, not when he’s like this, focused on the case and saving as much people as he can.

Derek smiles, toeing off his shoes and taking off his shirt as he walks into the bathroom. It’s moments like these, when they’re quiet and Stiles’ touches are soft and affectionate that he’s glad Stiles found him back then.

—

It’s horribly cliché. The vampires live in a huge mansion with a damp basement filled with coffins. Before Stiles, Derek would have thought that was just popular culture. Before Stiles, Laura handled the supernatural stuff, not Derek. After Stiles, Derek knows better, knows that even though some things can’t be taken at face value, others can.

It’s almost too easy, sneaking into the vampires’ mansion. They’re all asleep, focused on their dreams instead of their surroundings. That’s one of the first things Derek learned back then — always be alert. You never know who might sneak in, what might happen.

What they’re doing now seems achingly familiar, sneaking into a house while the inhabitants are sleeping, the smell of gasoline trailing behind them. It makes Derek’s stomach roll, and normally he wouldn’t do this, but they hurt humans. They broke a rule. They hurt innocent people, people who hadn’t done anything wrong and deserved _better_.

Stiles had reassured him of that before they’d gone, and Derek believed him. Still believes him. Stiles goes by the same rules as he does.

In the end, Stiles is the one to light the match. Derek is already back in the car by then, as far away from the fire as he can get at that point. Stiles immediately jumps into the car when he’s done, but they’re still not fast enough to avoid the horrible screams and the smell of burning flesh.

—

They’re being hunted by two witches. Derek doesn’t know where they are — somewhere on the west coast, probably. Somewhere close to the sea. It doesn’t matter; they’re being hunted. The witches are after Stiles, they know that much. The witches had approached them in a Walmart, eyes dark as they’d stared at them and Derek hadn’t wasted a second getting Stiles out of there because Stiles is Pack and he can’t lose him.

“It’s going to be okay, Derek.”

“I can’t lose you,” he says, softly against Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes red and tired, tear tracks on his cheeks. Stiles’ hands card gently through his hair, letting his fingers catch on knots before letting them fall. He presses a kiss to top of Derek’s head, another one, and Derek nuzzles against the tattoo, lets the scent of Stiles fill him.

“I know, I know,” Stiles says, shushes, and Derek feels pathetic, but he needs this. Needs Stiles. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. You know why?”

Derek shakes his head, looking up at Stiles through the tears, blinking them away. Stiles’ fingers tighten a bit in his hair, his thumb stroking over Derek’s temple. A grin, teeth flashing in the soft light of shitty motel lamps, and Stiles says, “Because we will fight back.”

—

The witches are easy to track down, not even a defensive spell in sight. It’s odd. Unusual. Derek skin crawls with the thought that something bad’s going to happen, but Stiles just smiles at him and tells him it’s going to be okay. Then he throws a handful of mountain ash on the map, burns it, whispers something in a low, guttural voice that makes heat swirl in Derek’s stomach, and there it is: a perfect circle.

“See, Derek?” Stiles says, eyes still solid gold, pupil nowhere to be found. His hand lands on Derek’s bicep, so hot it burns. Derek knows what he’s seeing — the witches, what they’re doing, where they’re doing it — and doesn’t try to say anything. Stiles needs silence when he’s casting. “It’ll be okay.”

Derek nods, even though he knows Stiles can’t see him, and clenches his hand into a fist until the blood drains out of it. Stiles’ scent shifts into something ugly, something that smells too much like evil and smoke. Derek focuses on the tattoo, plain on his neck, a symbol that seems meaningless but is so, so much more. He breathes in, out, lays a hand over the tattoo and feels it vibrate under his touch.

The long eyelashes in front of him blink once, twice, and then Stiles is back, just a glowing ring of gold around his pupil. He smiles and Derek is breathless with it — this man, this wonderful, magical man, who loves him.

“Come on, sourwolf,” Stiles says, eyes twinkling with amusement, hooking an arm around Derek’s neck. Derek lets himself be reeled in, content to follow Stiles’ lead like a toy soldier. “We have witches to kill,” he breathes against Derek’s lips.

Derek can’t do anything but kiss him.

—

The witch seems to have set up shop in a warehouse. Derek has Stiles cast a spell on him to tone down his sense of smell, the herbs making his eyes water. Derek goes in first, Stiles after him. The building is made of concrete and it’s night and the little ball floating ahead of them is the only light source they have. 

Rats scurry around, over the roof and in the walls, their tiny claws clicking softly on the stone, echoing through Derek’s ears. He can't stop tensing, the knowledge that there’s someone who wants to hurt Stiles, wants to hurt _them_.

He’s so focused on his thoughts, on the warmth of Stiles’ body at his back that he doesn’t notice the quiet dripping sound at first, his ears registering it as the rats before the smell hits him. Blood.

Stiles runs into him, his hands coming up to rest on Derek’s shoulder. It does little to calm Derek’s tense muscles, every inch of him fixated on the drips of blood sliding down concrete.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, breath ghosting over Derek’s ear. Derek shivers and turns around in Stiles’ grip, shielding Stiles with his back.

“Do you smell blood?” he whispers, voice low. Stiles tilts his head, sniffs a few times, his nostrils flaring, before he frowns. Derek swallows, trying not to panic. Blood and witches.

“Definitely.”

“Stay behind me,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t argue, just lets Derek take the lead.

They walk through a winding hallway, up a staircase, before Derek even sees the faint glow of flashlights, just enough to let him know which room they’re staying in. He stops next to the door, heart pounding in his chest, peeking around the corner to look at the witches.

Two of them, gathered around a table. Derek can make out a puddle of blood, a variety of herbs and a name. Stiles’ name, over and over, a chant that makes Derek’s skin crawl and his stomach drop. He lets his claws come out, eyes shining a brilliant red, and he’s about to charge into the room when Stiles walks past him, arms outstretched.

“Stiles!” he yells, trying to grab his elbow, but Stiles is quicker. He dives after Stiles, trying to protect him with his own body, because Stiles has to live, Stiles can’t die, _Stiles can’t die_.

The witches immediately scramble away, their hearts pounding in Derek’s head, and Derek leaps for one of them, the bald one, claws out. The witch throws something in his face, a powder, and there’s nothing but pain and red and he tries to get it out of his eyes but he can’t and _it burns_ —

Stiles says something, moves quickly, and then Derek can breathe again, the first thing he sees the faint glow of Stiles’ eyes in the dark. He’s got the other witch cornered, his hands not even trembling as he reaches them out. Derek watches the witch shiver with fear, watches the way Stiles holds himself, like a predator, and it makes him breathless.

“Stop, please!” the witch chokes out, eyes wide with fear. Stiles smiles, the hollows of his cheeks cast in shadows as he raises one hand. His eyes flash a brilliant gold, pupils melting like jewels and Derek can do nothing but stare at him as he casts a spell, voice guttural and hair-raising. The witch slumps over like his strings have been cut, and Derek feels nothing but apathy.

They shouldn’t have gone after Stiles. Stiles is Pack.

 

[Art](https://wildamongwolves.tumblr.com/post/162203965927) by [wildamongwolves](http://wildamongwolves.tumblr.com)  
(Image description: Artwork of Stiles, with a triskelion tattoo on his neck, smiling, his pupils appearing and disappearing and his eyes glowing)

 

“Derek, where’d the other one go?!” Stiles shouts, eyes still glowing. Shit. Derek glances around, tries to find a trace of him, but comes up with nothing. “Why did you let him go?!”

Stiles’ hands are suddenly on his shoulders, fingers clenched tight and bunching up his shirt. He looks furious, brow creased and eyes flashing between gold and brown. Derek swallows, his heart racing in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, not looking Stiles in the eye, instead focusing on their shoes. “I was just — you and the _eyes_ — and I —”

Stiles’ deep sigh makes him look up, a mixture of defeat and empathy painting Stiles’ features. His grip slackens until he’s drawing circles on the ends of Derek’s collarbones. Derek’s heart calms as he feels a little push of magic into him, winding into his core and relaxing him.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, letting his hands fall away. “We’ll get him next time.”

—

This is how they start:

A frantic call, Laura’s scent down the stairs and to the parking lot. A hired car that smells like cigarettes and cum and Derek’s sleepless nights. The beeping of an abandoned cell phone. A headache from staring at headlights.

Laura on the ground, splayed out and cut in half. The smell of wolfsbane and perfume and gunpowder and blood, more blood, more more more _Laura Laura Laura_. A snapped branch, the smell of something dangerous, and eyes that flare red with power that isn’t his.

A boy, just a boy, lanky and tall and everything Kate wasn’t. His steps soft on the ground, leaves that don’t crunch beneath his weight. Derek sits and watches, transfixed. Brown eyes flashing gold, a pattern of moles on a cheek that warp when he grins, a soft, “I’ll help you. It’ll be okay.”

—

“Yes, fuck, _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, his hand tightening on Derek’s shoulder. Derek licks over the tattoo again, scrapes his beard over the skin until it’s red and bruised and Stiles is shuddering against him, his cock a brand against Derek’s thigh.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Stiles pants, heavy puffs of air against Derek’s lips that make him shiver. Stiles bites at his bottom lip, murmuring, “Do it, Derek. Bite me.”

Derek grins, lets his fangs grow until they’re hovering over the tattoo, the place where he marked Stiles, where they’re together, and bites. Blood flows down his chin, salty and metallic, and Derek sucks, Stiles’ moans loud in his ears.

—

They take a break — if you can even call it that — for a few days. The motel room starts smelling more and more familiar, Derek gliding his hands over everything he can touch, driving out the smell of cigarettes and sweat and _other_. Stiles catches him doing it sometimes, and he looks on fondly, eyes warm and soft and grounding.

It’s a Tuesday morning when it all comes to a head. Derek knows rest isn’t an option, hasn’t been an option since he was sixteen and scared and everything smelled like smoke and perfume, but he can still pretend.

Stiles has been sitting at the desk for an hour when he suddenly gets up. Derek looks up from his book, lets his thumb slip in between the pages to bookmark it. The look on Stiles’ face is scarily blank, the skin of his neck jumping with the beats of his pulse. Derek makes a move to get up, but Stiles gestures for him to keep sitting.

“I think the witch has gone to California. Near Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, body language giving nothing away. Derek swallows. Shakes his head. Tries to pretend like he isn’t seeing flashes of memories. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“I —” Derek says. Stops. Hesitates. He knew, somehow. He knew this would happen. The witch seemed familiar, but Derek can’t place him. Beacon Hills. _Beacon Hills_. “I don’t know.”

Stiles sighs, sits down next to him on the bed. Their shoulders brush together, and Stiles grabs his hand, plays with his fingers for a bit. Derek lets him, waits for Stiles to say anything because Stiles always knows what to say. What to do.

“I’m always here, Derek,” Stiles whispers, glancing up at Derek through his eyelashes. He brings one hand up to cup Derek’s cheek, swiping softly over his cheekbone. Derek turns his face to kiss Stiles’ palm. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

They sit in silence for a while, just look at each other. Stiles’ eyes flick from left to right then down and back up again. He’s anxious, Derek knows. Stiles is being hunted. Someone wants to hurt him. And Derek isn’t selfish enough to let Stiles get hurt. 

“I know,” Derek says in the end, leaning forward until his head rest on Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles’ hand clasping the back of his neck. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says, kissing the top of his head, and Derek smiles.

Stiles is Pack. Stiles knows what’s best.

—

They split up in the forest near Derek’s old house. Stiles goes left and Derek goes right and all Derek can focus on is the sense of anger he feels, running free through the woods that used to be his, _theirs_. He’s shaking from it, the idea that this witch runs where he did, this witch that wants to kill the only thing that he has.

It’s easy to track the witch down. He smells like fear and desperation and apprehension. His heart is beating so loudly Derek can hear it from miles away. Derek lets his fangs elongate, makes branches creak, puts extra weight into his steps so the witch will know he’s coming. Will know there’s no escape. Not this time. Not from him.

Derek finds him in the middle of a clearing, where flowers bloom pale in the moonlight. The witch is facing him, a determined look on his face. Derek wants to kill him.

“Derek,” the man says softly, clearly, hands raised and neck tilted. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Derek feels a snarl in his chest, building steadily into a roar of rage, his claws only kept at bay by the last touches of Stiles’ magic on him. “You were going to hurt Stiles.”

“Not without reason, Derek, he—”

“ _There is no reason_ ,” he growls, roars, yells, claws breaking through his skin as he leaps at the witch. He’s going to tear his throat out for ever daring to look at Stiles, is going to claw out his guts until there’s nothing left but a puddle of blood.

The witch takes a step closer, foolishly, and Derek hones in on every detail, anything he can use against the witch. He has a nervous tic, fingers of his right hand twitching like he wants to grab something.

“I’m Alan Deaton,” the witch says. Derek stops. The name — it seems familiar, somehow. “You know me.”

Derek stops breathing. Deaton. He knew this man, from somewhere, from some time long past. Now he’s nothing but a stranger. The witch’s fingers twitch closer to his pockets and Derek’s shoulders tense.

“I — I —” He tries to reconcile the stranger with an impression, but it doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on, the only thing he wants, is _Stiles_. “What do you want with Stiles.” 

The witch sighs, closes his eyes for a second. It doesn’t matter what the reason is. It doesn’t matter what Stiles did. Stiles is Pack.

“He killed Laura, Derek. He’s the one who killed Laura.”

The world stops. Derek clenches his hands, unclenches them, clenches them again, blood trickling down his palms, cuts closing and reopening. Stiles killed Laura. The witch’s heart didn’t skip a beat. Stiles killed Laura. Stiles killed Laura Stiles killed Laura Stiles — _Stiles is Pack_.

“He —” Derek says, but stops. Stiles is Pack. He trusts Stiles. Stiles knows what’s best. Stiles killed Laura. Stiles is Pack. Stiles— “I don’t — he must’ve had a good reason.”

Stiles bursts in through the trees, face casts in shadows, and he snaps his fingers. Derek’s eyes jump to him, sees the contours of his cheeks burst into a smile, when the witch bursts into a puddle of blood with a sickening squelch.

“Of course I did, Derek,” Stiles says, blood dripping from his fingers, hand stretched towards Derek. Derek’s heart skips a beat, sees the yellow glow of Stiles’ eyes and smells _Pack_. Stiles steps closer to him, until they’re standing only an inch away from each other. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings** : Unhealthy relationships, slight bloodplay, moral dubiousness, probably mentally abusive stuff, Stiles murders people
> 
> Woah, so that was the fic!!! Thanks for reading through this angsty thing ^^ I hope y'all liked it, and please be sure to send your love to the artist for their gorgeous artwork!!!!! Also feel free to comment? We'd really appreciate it ^^
> 
> (Please reblog the art on tumblr ^^ [Here's the link](https://wildamongwolves.tumblr.com/post/162203965927)!)
> 
> [Author's Tumblr](http://demisexualhale.tumblr.com) | [Artist's Tumblr](http://wildamongwolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
